Grave Secret - Charlaine Harris [78]
“Excuse me,” I said again, more sharply than I’d intended.
“Oh, sorry,” the receptionist said. She took an earpiece from her ear. “I didn’t hear you.”
“We’d like to see the doctor,” I said.
“Do you have an appointment? Do you have a referral?”
“No,” I said, and smiled.
Nonplussed, she looked past my shoulder at Manfred, as if hoping to find someone who could explain the phenomenon of a person trying to see a doctor without an appointment.
“I’m with her,” he said helpfully. “We both want to see the doctor. It’s about a personal matter.”
“You’re not the daughter-in-law—are you?” The red-headed woman was full of delighted, horrified anticipation.
“Sorry, no.” I hated to burst her bubble.
“He won’t see you,” she said. She’d switched to a confiding tone. Maybe it was Manfred’s facial decoration that had won her heart. She was obviously a woman who liked strong style. “He’s very busy.”
I looked around at the one patient, who was trying to appear oblivious to the interesting conversation we were having. “That’s not the impression I get,” I told her.
“I’ll check, though,” she said, as though I hadn’t spoken. “What’s your name, please?”
I told her. Before she could ask, I said, “This is my friend Manfred Bernardo.”
“What’s this in reference to?”
She’d never understand the long version. “It’s about a case he had around eight years ago,” I said. “We want to discuss his findings with him.”
“I’ll tell him,” she said, and rose to her feet. “You’ll have to wait your turn.”
We did, and when the thin man had left and no one had taken his place in the waiting room, we waited some more.
Pointy Glasses could tell we weren’t going to leave, and apparently the doctor decided against sneaking out without seeing us. When we’d been there forty-five minutes or longer, he appeared at the door into the examining area. Dr. Bowden was in his sixties, bald except for a gray fringe. He was one of those anonymous-looking men you’d have trouble describing. You could meet him six times in a row and you’d still have to ask his name.
“All right, I have a moment now,” he said. He preceded us into his office, a small room crowded with bookcases, papers, home-stitched framed needlework (“Doctors leave their patients in stitches”), and photographs of himself with a short, very plump woman and a boy. The boy grew up to be a young man in the photos, and then there was a wedding picture of the grown-up son with his own wife.
He settled himself behind the desk, giving a good impression of a busy and prosperous man who was sparing us a few minutes out of the goodness of his heart.
“My name is Harper Connelly, and this is my friend Manfred Bernardo,” I said. “I’m here about a death you certified eight years ago, the death of a woman named Mariah Parish.”
“I’d been warned you were coming,” he said, which startled the hell out of me. “I can’t believe you’d have the sheer effrontery to show up here.”
“Why not?” I said, completely at a loss. “If Mariah Parish was murdered, it completely changes a very complicated situation.”
“Murdered?” He looked as astounded as I was, now. “But I was told . . . I was told you were alleging that Mariah Parish was still alive.”
“No, I’ve never said that, and I don’t believe it. Who told you that?”
But the doctor didn’t answer. He looked very concerned, but not as hostile. “You aren’t here to dispute my filing a death certificate?”
“No. I know Mariah Parish is dead. I’m just wondering why you didn’t fill in the cause of death correctly.”
Tom Bowden flushed, and it didn’t look good on him. “Do you represent her family?”
“She didn’t have a family,” I said. “We represent the detective who’s looking for her baby.” Which, in a way, was true.
“The baby,” he said, and he aged five years in thirty seconds.
“Yes,” I said, very sternly. “Tell us about it.”
“You know how influential the Joyces are,” he said.